


we could go

by britpop



Category: Bripop, Suede - Fandom, The London Suede
Genre: M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:30:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britpop/pseuds/britpop
Summary: When their new keyboardist begins to show face around the studio more often, Brett finds himself drawn to him.





	we could go

**Author's Note:**

> i mentioned i was working on a suede thing and i was and this is it and some one please talk to me about brett / neil. 
> 
> i'm actually really proud of this even if it is a short nothint i feel it was written profoundly better than my other work. 
> 
> much love,  
> L x

They’d found a place underneath a motorway that had seen better days, where against the curved concrete walls holding the infrastructure up grew flowers and weeds of such dark colors that sometimes they couldn’t see them when they met. The fields on either side of the road were overgrown and unkempt, now beginning to expand into the street. It was in one of these patches of floral expanse that they had made their second homes. A dent in the greenery on the ground indicated others had taken to this spot as a haven well before them, but now this space belonged to them and their love affair.  
It was almost routine that they met here at least twice a week, to curl up, or to make love or talk. They’d drawn and written their scriptures on the wall they leaned against, then intertwined their bodies together to lay and watch the lights of the distant city flicker. As far as they were concerned, this area was theirs. Or, rather, as Brett had called it once; “Our sacred space.” 

Brett did most of the talking, always waxing poetic about something or another, or making light hearted sarcastic remarks about people or things. He fidgeted often when speaking, and as Neil had noticed, when sitting he had a habit to rock back and forth slightly. Usually it was his hair that fell victim to his habits, often curling and uncurling it around his fingers or tugging at it when trying to remember something.   
Neil had never been much of a talker, he tended to absorb everything he experienced in a picturesque way, where he could pull out the box of old polaroids and return to the moment, the lesson, the book, the kiss whenever he wanted. He stayed quiet most of the times, which caused other members of the band to have a strange aversion to him. It hurt, yeah, as did most things, but it wasn’t so much of a matter of feeling disregarded or underappreciated that bothered him, moreso the sense of being too much of a weirdo for the outcasts.   
And though Brett had his moments of treating Neil like a substanceless toy, he was usually the one who acknowledged him kindly in small ways when in studio or on stage. Little glances and smiles, letting him know he was still apart of, if at least not the band, then of him.   
He remembers everything he overheard older members say about him, that he was a recluse, strange, weird, even on rare occasions they’d call him a waste of their space. He felt unwelcomed at all times. Most days when he arrived at the studio he paused and looked in through the small door window, contemplating just walking away, but Brett always saw him and invited him in with a gesture. 

Their relationship had begun the second they met, when Simon had introduced Brett to him formally one evening while Neil was idly hanging about the studio tapping his nails gently on the amplifier he was sitting on. He’d never made direct eye contact with any of these people before, and usually he wouldn't have, but he turned his head upwards to look at the singer and knew he was in trouble.   
He didn’t show much emotion when they shook hands, but Brett was visibly moved by their acquaintance and shook some when speaking.  
Later on, during a smoke break where Brett and himself stood leaning against a concrete wall, he had caught Brett reciting something familiar to himself. “‘I knew that I had come face to face with someone whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.’” He had mused, and Neil found himself obliged to comment.   
“Let it,” he said, releasing a constellation of smoke from his lips.   
Brett looked over at him with widened eyes as though he wasn't aware he was there and asked, “What?” Breathlessly.  
“Let it consume you. The best work comes from impulsive infatuation.” He then made a heartless gesture as if to usher him away and said; “Shoo, go, Basil. Create.” And snickered.   
He was sixteen then.

He was still sixteen by the time Brett had pulled him into his arms from behind and gave him so many kisses it was hard to keep count, and Neil sunk into him with ease. lt was then that he mumbled, “I could fall so far down in love with you that I could drown.” And although Neil was legal, and he didn’t mind the attention, he could feel Brett’s anxiety radiating off him.   
It wasn’t until Neil was eighteen, after several years of idle flirtations and subtle kisses on the neck, that they’d found the crook under the motorway. 

They had immersed themselves in each other the week after the discovery, at about one in the morning, Neil undid his shirt to allow Brett to feel him. He closed his eyes as fingers as soft as silk explored his chest and neck, down his sides and to the edge of his jeans where he hesitated before undoing the button and pulling them down to his mid thighs. He was already hard, and once Brett had began to rub him through his briefs, the last several years of pent up frustration came out, and Neil found himself with his arms around Brett’s neck, practically sitting on his lap once having discarded his jeans, in a mess of kisses where teeth collide and Brett, breathless underneath him began to move his hips upwards against Neil’s.   
He laughed into his mouth when he felt him, and mumbled to him; “Aren’t you so easy?”   
“You’re the one that lost your control the second I touched you,” he commented, hiding his face in Neil’s neck, delivering small kisses to his skin.   
“I’m young,” he replied, “I have an excuse.” He ran his fingers through Brett’s hair, moving suddenly downward against his crotch, eliciting a weak moan from the other.   
The hesitance on Brett’s side prohibited anything else, but by the time he managed to get Brett’s trouser off, he had his cock in his mouth. Brett, constantly melodramatic, moaned as though Christ was upon him as he worked on him.   
They spent the rest of the night pressed by each other’s sides talking of all the years they’d waited to have some privacy for themselves.

“How many people do you think came here before we found this space?” He asked, taking a look around at the abandoned stretch of road.   
“As many as there are of us.” Neil replied, cupping a hand around a lighter to light his cigarette.   
“You don’t think others have been here before us? Doing the same as we are?” His attention turned back to Neil, where he sat now illuminated by the moon which seemed to drape itself like a veil across his youthful face.   
“I think it’d be nice to think we are the only ones who know of this nook in the country.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and released the smoke like a puff of stardust, the fog clouding his being for a brief moment making him seem as though a dream. “This is ours, Brett, all ours.” He continued, gesturing to the space around them with the hand his cigarette was held between.

Brett sat silent for a moment, gazing at Neil in pure admiration, his sharp cheekbones like razors on his perfect pale skin. His hair combed back but forever dangling in strands down his face, his image of Dorian Gray sat beside him in their little haven. He leaned over towards him, placing a gentle kiss on the side of his face.  
“I love you, you know that?” He said, quiet, genuine, yet unsure of how the younger would react. 

“Oh, you’re much too much, Brett.” He mumbled, smiling up at the concrete roof as he flicked his cigarette into the road.


End file.
